


Who's a Heretic Now?

by maeveofconnacht



Category: Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types, The X-Files
Genre: Bisexuality, F/F, F/M, Lesbian Character, Mulder at the end, No Lesbians Die, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-18 15:29:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29245845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maeveofconnacht/pseuds/maeveofconnacht
Summary: Two months before Dana Scully joins the X-Files, she does an autopsy for one Clarice Starling.
Relationships: Ardelia Mapp/Clarice Starling, Dana Scully/Clarice Starling, Fox Mulder/Dana Scully
Comments: 15
Kudos: 39





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there! I haven't seen Hannibal (the TV show or film) but I have seen Silence of the Lambs and I always thought Scully and Clarice would get along. I know they're making a TV show about Clarice (don't know if I'll watch it) and this story popped into my head. It's canon-esque, I guess? It's nice, right now, to have a story to disappear into. I hope some other people out there enjoy it -lmk!

Clarice admits, quietly, to herself, that when Crawford instructed her to schedule the victim’s autopsy, she selects the woman’s name on the pathologist rotation sheet, even if it means waiting four hours, because she _needs_ to discuss the mutilation of the victim with someone who gives a damn. The other name on the schedule is Dr. Sansburn’s – a grizzly albeit smart old dinosaur who looks at each body like a piece of meat. 

Agent Dana Scully looks young – younger than she does if only by a year or two – and stands smaller than Clarice in her sneakers. Her red hair is pulled back into a short ponytail and she’s pinned her side bangs into place. Their edges stick out a little and catch the beam of the overhead white light. Clarice watches her snap off her latex gloves and then wash her hands through the glass window in the autopsy bay’s door, feeling a little uncomfortable at the idea that she is observing her without the woman’s knowledge. She offers the woman a conciliatory little smile as Agent Scully turns and meets her eyes.

Agent Scully strides over to the door and opens it. “Agent Starling?” Her voice is high and girlish. She steps through and smooths down the front of her teal scrubs. Clarice notices that her badge is new. She’s only recently been granted authorization to work as a Bureau pathologist. Agent Scully is wearing it proudly, clipped to her chest. _She probably put in on for the debriefing_.

When Clarice glances up, she meets Agent Scully’s eyes. They’re deep blue – ocean-like. She stares for a moment. Then, she clears her throat.

Agent Scully clears her throat at the same time and at the synchronized sound she emits a little “oh” of surprise.

Clarice feels herself start to twitch a little, the way she used to when she got nervous or embarrassed. She forces herself to still and extends her hand. “That’s me. Agent Scully?”

“It’s nice to meet you. Dana’s fine.” She slides her palm into Clarice’s. Her hand feels rough and dry and her fingers are small - delicate. They shake. Clarice notices it now. Dana Scully is small in the same way she is – not just short but slim, with muscle mass she has likely labored for hours at the gym to gain. She wonders which tricks she’s has picked up for handling combat classes, or for leading a bust simulation when the rest of the team is topping 6’2”. Maybe they can compare stories.

“Clarice, then.”

Scully offers a prim little smile and nods. “I finished the autopsy about an hour ago. There’s some – well I think you should see this.” She moves to re-enter the bay, pausing at the door. “You’re – you’re ready to see the body, right?”

“Of course.” Clarice nods two, three times.

Dana leads her through the cold metal door and to a grey lump in a zippered bag.

They are coming up now to the part Clarice hates – taking notes on the remnant marks of violence and what they might mean. She hates it more than the smell of the body, permeating through the little cloth mask offered as a consolatory protector. She hates it more than the feeling of the dull, cold skin when she has to lift the corpse’s arm to get a closer look at something on its torso. She especially hates it when the corpse is a young woman. They seem to show up over and over again on that table. She’s been profiling for the past year, managing to avoid any hands-on roles for serial killers but she still, from time-to-time, has seen the bodies, just like she saw Buffalo Bill’s victims. Did it bother Dana Scully, she wonders, to slice up a woman her own age?

“So, I’ll have more specifics for you when lab results come back,” Dana says, hooking a mask over her ears. She hands Clarice one and then moves to tug a fresh pair of latex gloves onto her hands, one at a time. “But I can tell you without them that cause of death was drowning.” Slowly, Dana pulls the zipper down and reveals the pale skin of a corpse. She looks stoic, like slicing up dead women is a regular pastime. A putrid stench rises up out of the bag as it falls to the corpse’s side, fainter than Clarice expects but enough to make her crinkle her nose. She tugs on the mask.

Dana is studying something now at the body’s feet. Clarice stares down at the body for another moment. The corpse is pretty, even bloated and sallow-skinned with its hair full of leaves and mud. “You can see bruising on the wrists and ankles,” Dana says. She runs a finger over a ring of dark, purple splotches near the corpse’s heel. “I can’t be certain, but the pattern is consistent with being grabbed. There’s scrapes, too, all around the bruising which suggests the victim was tied up.”

“She struggled.” Clarice says.

“Mmm.”

They stare at the corpse’s swollen, bluish ankles for a moment. 

“I think she was probably bound while conscious, and then thrown into the river.” Dana’s voice is low, as if stating her hypothesis too loudly is disrespectful.

Clarice’s keeps her voice at the same volume. “Thank you, Agent Scully. Dana.” She lets out a low breath. There is another body Crawford thinks was from the same killer – bound like this one but hung up on a willow tree. The murder isn’t so much posing them as killing them to be found – there is variety in presentation, but it points towards methodology. It makes her want to hurl. Instead, she focuses on the corpse’s dirty eyelids.

“Are there any case updates?” Dana asks.

Clarice swallows and forced herself to look up. “Not much. At least – not that I know of. We think there’s another murder from the same killer. And of course, they’re happening relatively near Quantico so it’s our jurisdiction, in a way. That’s about all I know.”

“I thought you were leading the case?”

Clarice bites the inside of her lip and shook her head. “I’m acting lead. This is Dr. Crawford’s case.”

“Right.” Dana’s tone is curt. She begins to re-zip the body bag.

“Did you have Dr. Crawford for any of your cases at the Academy?”

Dana walks to the end of the examination table and undoes the wheel lock. She shakes her head. “I didn’t do much with behavioral sciences and he doesn’t do general training, as far as I can tell.”

Clarice watches her wheel the body toward its storage unit. The left wheel squeaks. “You seem to know him.”

Dana opens the unit’s door and wheels the body in slowly. “No.” She pulls off her gloves and after discarding them in the metal waste bin, uses her index finger to unhook her mask from her ear. “It’s not fair but I suppose I was kind of excited to work with a younger agent as the lead. And I haven’t reported to another woman before.” She tucks her chin. 

Clarice’s mask is already off. She smiles closed mouthed. “I’d like that too, to be honest.” She pauses. “But Crawford – he’ll do a good job.”

“I’m sure.” Dana turns and walks to the little metal sink in the room’s corner. “I’m surprised he picked me for the autopsy, to be honest. Dr. Sansburn is much more experienced.” She twists the faucet handle and the stream of water splatting against the sink’s base sounds louder than it should.

“Well, I did that.”

Dana turns back to face her. Their eyes lock and this time, Clarice holds her gaze. She feels her heartbeat quicken a little. Pretty women never fail to make her stomach flutter. For a long time, she told herself that it was just admiration. She knows better, now, but it doesn’t stop her from sometimes fighting the feeling.

“Do you have more work to get done?” Dana asks. She glances behind her at the black-plastic analogue clock on the wall. 7:00 pm.

Clarice shakes her head, “To be honest, I’ve got more I could be doing, but I’ll probably just go home and review the case over some leftover pizza.”

“Have you had dinner yet? Want to grab some?”

“What?”

Dana bites her lip. “I didn’t mean to overstep or anything. I just thought, well, maybe you could get me up to date on the case. I’ve got another body tomorrow – the one they’ve linked.”

“Yes I-” She forces herself to pause and clear her throat. “That sounds good. What do you like – hamburgers?” Her accent slides through here – her long vowels and hard, Appalachian r. It makes her wince.

If Dana notices, she doesn’t let on. She smiles. “Of course.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there! I'm planning on posting on Wednesdays and Saturdays. The first few chapters are more set-up than I'd like but I'm really enjoying creating this whole world so what can I say? POV alternates between Clarice and Scully. Thank you to any readers out there :)

She watched Agent Starling dip her fries into a little paper cup of ketchup. The yellow, buzzing light near their picnic table casts the side of her face in a warm glow. Scully is beginning to feel the night air finally settle into something cool – a soft sort of peaceful darkness that leaves goosebumps on the back of her neck.

She likes Clarice Starling – likes her soft southern accent and her earnestness. She is delicate-looking, has a single stud silver earring in each lobe, and wears a sensible pale – pink shirt, her blazer long-since shrugged off her shoulders.

Clarice was in the class of trainees above her, in behavioral sciences, and immediately whisked off to a fancy job at headquarters upon graduation. Yet, although she’s certain they’ve never really spoken, she knows she’s noticed Clarice on training grounds more than once since she’s started doing autopsies. “I’ve seen you around,” she says and cringes. She sounds like the protagonist from an ‘80s high school movie, making a pitiful attempt to impress a girl. “Around Quantico, I mean.”

“Oh?” Clarice looks up from her fries.

“Well, I thought I’ve seen you.” Scully sips her Coke, tucking her chin to try and hide the bush in her cheeks. “Do you travel back and forth from headquarters?”

Clarice nods. “Crawford’s stationed at Quantico.”

“Right.”

“And a friend of mine’s doing research here.”

“Really? Maybe I know him?” Scully feels relieved to have something to talk about. She knows some of the researchers at Quantico at this point – at least the younger ones. She eats at their lunch table when she makes it out of her office.

“Agent Mapp? Ardelia?” Clarice says Ardelia’s name like it’s her favorite holiday, just around the corner. She has stopped picking at her fries now and is focusing on Scully.

Ardelia. Ardeli- yes. Oh. Scully sips her Coke again. _Outside Jessie’s Place. Three weeks ago. It is muggy. Scully is stumbling out of the bar for a cigarette (she only smokes on nights out, it’s her new rule). The world tips around her and the cool air makes her feel like she can take a real breath. The quiet calms her. She pulls out her lighter and hears a moan. “Ardelia.” Behind her, under the halo of a building light, a pretty woman with twists is kissing another woman whose long black hair reaches the small of her back. Scully smiles, feels a little jealous. The next Monday she sees the woman – Ardelia – grabbing an apple in the cafeteria._

“Do y’know her?” Clarice asks.

“I’ve seen her around, but I don’t think we’ve met.” She bites her lip. “What does she research?”

“Audio engineering techniques. She’s trained as a special agent too, of course.” Pride seeps into Clarice’s voice.

Scully smiles and nods. “Cool.” A beat. “How is working at headquarters?”

Clarice shrugs. “Rewarding, I guess. I’ve been doing more logistic work. This is my first big case since I was a trainee.”

Scully wonders, sometimes, about the inter-workings of the Bill case. She’s heard enough speculation about it to last her a lifetime but none of the other trainees seemed to contemplate what, precisely, went on in that killer’s house. Then again, if she were in Clarice’s place she wouldn’t want to field personal questions. The Bureau might have trained them to inquire and uncover but Scully knows there are stones better left to grow moss.

Instead, she smiles and says, “this is my first big case ever.”

Clarice smiles back. “So it’s your case now too?”

  
Scully feels her cheeks flush. “Sorry.”

“No! No, it’s alright.” Clarice leans forward and reaches her arm across the table, resting a light hand on Scully’s – just a brush. “I’d like it, actually, if you stayed on to consult. Hopefully, there won’t be any more bodies. But just generally, it’ll be good to have a scientist on board – well, a non-behavioral scientist. I mean, only if you have time of course I know you’re busy, but I can put in a request to Crawford or even headquarters or –”

“I have time,” Scully says. “I’d like to help.”

Clarice is smiling again. Little dimples have formed on her cheeks. “Well then I’m glad to have you on board, Dr. Scully.”

***

She reaches her apartment later than she anticipates – she and Clarice spent nearly two hours at the burger place, and then there was the drive to Paulstown. She can’t stop herself from grinning – she’s been grinning since _9 to 5_ came on the radio and started humming along. She’s consulting on a real case, giving input outside the autopsy bay. It feels as if no one has much cared what she thinks since her undergrad years, and now, someone is finally interested. She chastises herself. She has a good family. Jack is a good boyfriend and surely she’s just being a bit self-centered, feeling like Clarice is the first person who’s been listening to her.

The answering machine in blinking. She pushes the button and then walks into the little open kitchen to wash her hands.

_‘Dana, it’s Jack. Thought you were supposed to call me. Hope the autopsy didn’t take this long. Let me know. Okay. Oh, uh, love ya.’_

The recording clicks. Shit. She was supposed to go over to his tonight. She glances at the clock in her kitchenette. 11pm. She could head over now, she reasons, tiptoe into his bed and cuddle up next to him. No, Jack doesn’t like surprises. He’d call the whole thing immature. She hasn’t been with someone who’d like a late-night surprise since…well…since before med school.

She settles on calling him. As the line rings, she feels the weight of the day pressing on her shoulders. Her feet feel sore. The cold concrete of the autopsy bay floor causes force to push up into her heels when she walks, even with good shoes. Jack’s annoyed, of course, when she tells him she got held up with casework but sounds pleased when she tells him she’s been asked to consult. _That’s excellent Dana. Really._ She tells him she loves him, hangs up and sighs. She can feel the burger sitting in her stomach. She’s going to help Clarice catch this killer. She is smiling again.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone is having a good weekend out there!

Ardelia is running late. Clarice is standing at the Training Academy’s cafeteria entrance. Her white blouse sticks to her back even as the AC vent blows frigid air at the crown of her head. She feels a little like a new graduate back at her hold high school – uncomfortably aware that this place is not hers anymore. She notices a trainee glancing at her and catches his eye, before looking down, pretending to examine her hands. She swears next time, she’ll be late, too, so she doesn’t have to stand here.

Mostly, though, she’s in a good mood – has been since burgers with Dana Scully the night before. After Dana agreed to consult on the case, they’d settling into a conversation on lines of inquiry that trickled down to discuss of academic backgrounds. Dana is brilliant – physics to medical school, sailing through the Bureau’s additional pathology courses while training at the academy. And at the same time, she is humble, kind, even. She’s got the empathetic logic that so many of the police teams and agents Clarice works with don’t have. Talking with Dana, Clarice felt as if a latch inside her was re-clipping, a toner-low monochrome part of her brain was printing in color again. She slept for nine hours last night – a first in nearly a year and she feels like her senses are perked-up and running smoothly inside her.

She can hear how the whir of the fan mixing with the chatter of passing cadets. Her stomach rumbles. Admittedly, getting nine hours of sleep meant skipping out on breakfast. She always eats breakfast, likes the taste of cereal each morning with a cup of black coffee. Missing the meal has made her unreasonably hungry.

“Clarice!”

Ardelia stands before her, smiling. “Sorry I’m late. Are you ready?”

“Of course.”

They walk into the cafeteria and head over to the salad bar. This is a ritual. Salad first – the bigger the better. Then, a sandwich, or soup of the day. Quantico is not spoiled for choice when it comes to healthy eating and they’ve both learned operating on chicken nuggets alone is a recipe for a headache.

They settle at a corner table and Clarice spears some lettuce and shovels it into her mouth, wincing at the crunch. Maybe those chicken nuggets are the right choice after all.

“Hungry?” Ardelia is smiling again – grinning, really. Clarice could dissolve into that smile – float along the vibrations of her voice. It would be like sailing on a sunset ocean.

She swallows. “A bit.”

“The new case got you busy?”

Clarice nods. “Crawford wants to see me after lunch, actually. We had the autopsy done yesterday and we might’ve found – well, I don’t now what we found really but it’s worth thinking on.”

Ardelia nods back. “Good luck. I hear Crawford’s a bit distracted these days.”

Clarice thought Crawford sounded curt their last meeting. Of course, it’s hard to be cheery when you’re trying to convince your AD that two murders are linked and that the killer responsible is active. “Any idea why?” She asks.

Ardelia shrugs. “Just what I hear around Quantico.”

“Speaking of around Quantico,” Clarice says, “how’s the research going?” She reaches out and pokes Ardelia’s left hand.

“Great, actually.” Ardelia sits up a little. “Really great. The technology is fascinating. We’re building such cool stuff. Clarice – I can’t tell you details but it’s _seriously_ cool.”

Clarice nods. She was thrilled when Ardelia moved back from her field placement in Los Angeles to take on research in the FBI’s audio-engineering lab. Seeing Ardelia this happy (and yes, actually _seeing_ Ardelia with some frequency) makes her feel light. She imagines the sunlit ocean again.

Ardelia glances around the cafeteria which is slowly emptying of trainees. She leans across the grey, plastic table. “And I’ve started seeing someone.”

Her stomach clenches – forms a knot which in an instant sinks into her like a rock into the cold, black bottom of a lake. Except, she feels hot and flushed. She squirms. “Oh?”

“They’re really great, Clarice. They got transferred from Seattle about a month ago to work on the team and we met in the lab.”

Clarice is smiling and nodding but she can hear words in the sound of her own pulse, drumming in her ears. _Too late. Too late._ With Ardelia, too, there was a real chance. One that she thought about when she was feeling especially hopeful or lonely. _One day I’ll ask her to dinner somewhere cute downtown. We’ll spend the who meal chatting, then order something sweet for dessert and I’ll tell her that I love her, have loved her for years now, loves the way she hold her hands in little fists when we run together, loves how she uses a color-coded planner, loves her laughter and her voice when she’s confused or amazed, just loves the sound of her voice in general, actually._

***

They were giggling together one night in the dorm’s basement laundry room, sitting on top of two idly white giants of laundry machines while their clothes washed nearby. 

“Clarice, honestly. What’s your type of guy?” Ardelia asked her. They’d been mimicking Ryan Polonsky’s, doing variations on the pickup lines he kept throwing at Clarice.

Clarice went still. The reverberating sound of the washer rung in her ears and the smell of laundry superimposed on the basement’s musk filled her nose. She took a deep breath. _This was the time_. “Not guys,” she whispered, keeping her eyes trained to her fuzzy socks. A rush of panic shot through her like a shot of adrenaline and part of her wanted her to take it back. She’d only known Ardelia for three months and Ardelia could tell _anyone_. But even then, she already trusted Ardelia with this information more than she trusted anyone – more than all of friends from college or even Cherry, her foster mother.

“Hey.” Ardelia’s voice sounded low and soft. She placed a gentle hand on Clarice’s foot.

Clarice forced herself to look up. She set her jaw, prepared for some semblance of shock or disgust in Ardelia’s face.

Ardelia’s lips were pressed together. She smiled. “Me too.”

Clarice hugged her, then, melted into her arms and stayed wrapped in Ardelia’s arms until her breath steadied. She thought, as she finally pulled out of her embrace, about kissing her, but bit the inside of her cheek instead, and looked up into Ardelia’s bright eyes.

***

“Clarice?”

Clarice swallows the puck of mucus congealed to the back of her throat. “That’s wonderful,” she says a little too loudly. “Really.”

This is what she gets for being a coward, for keeping secrets, for having ambitions that make her keep secrets. And who benefitted, really? _Well, the families of these women could._ She swallows. And after all, Ardelia deserves to be happy – to have someone to cuddle up next to each night, even if it wasn’t her, even if the image of Ardelia and some faceless other woman in her mind leaves her aching.

“You’ll like her,” Ardelia says softly. “She’s in the lab now, actually. Do you want to come meet her?”

No, she does not want to meet her, does not want to put a face to the figure in her head. Clarice makes a show of looking at her watch. “I’ve got to get to Crawford’s. Next time?”

Ardelia’s smile falls and her brow furrows. “Already?”

Clarice nods and stands. “I’ll be back all the time now,” she says. “With this case. Can we do lunch again next week?”

“Of course.” Ardelia stands too and gives her a hug.

Clarice hugs her back, squeezes Ardelia and her eyes shut at the same time. When she pulls away and turns, she forces herself to keep her eyes trained on the exit.

***

Quantico’s bathroom lighting is sterile, makes her look like a ghost with red-splotched eyes. When she was young, after her father died and before she went to live with Cherry, she didn’t cry – not after nightmares or when she felt so alone in the whatever foster or state home, she was in. Cherry was the one to remind her how to cry, let her spew out all her sadness and rage in tears and gave her a facecloth and a cup of tea afterwards. Sometimes, though, she wishes she still had her twelve-year-old self’s repression abilities, because here she is in the bathroom leaking tears and silently praying no one comes inside.

She sniffs. The bathroom has hand-dryers instead of paper towels and she’s used all the tissues in her bag, so she uses her sleeve to wipe her nose. The anger in her at herself is weighed down by sadness and embarrassment. If Ardelia is happy, why is she such a mess?

The door opens and Clarice sucks in a breath, turning her back to the mirror and tucking her chin, pretending to fiddle with something in her purse.

“Clarice? Is that you?”

Dana’s voice sounds warm and excited. Clarice makes a futile attempt to wipe her eyes dry with her fingertips and turns. “Hi.” Her voice sounds wobbly and high to her own ears.

Dana’s smile falters. “Are you alright?”

Clarice nods. “Just fine. Just cleaning myself up.”

“Has something happened? Is it the case?”

“No. No just allergies.”

Dana bites her bottom lip. She pulls something from her pocket and takes a step forward, offering it to Clarice.

It is a little pack of Kleenex. “Oh.” Clarice sniffs again. “Thanks.” She turns back to the mirror and begins to dab her nose, eyes.

“I’m doing the autopsy on the second body this afternoon. The one you and Crawford think is linked.”

Clarice finishes wiping her nose. “Really?” She wasn’t scheduled to consult this afternoon. “I think they’re sending someone else to hear your report, then.”

Dana looks a little disappointed.

“Would you give me a call about it if you aren’t too tired afterward? Just so I – so I can hear it from you.” Clarice says. “You can call any time, really. I don’t mind. I gave you my home phone, right?”

“I’ll call as soon as I finish.” Dana promises. She reaches over and squeezes Clarice’s shoulder. “Take care of yourself.”

Clarice smiles and turns to face herself in the mirror again as Dana disappears into a stall in the far corner. She splashes some cold water on her face and takes a deep breath. One foot in front of the other. One moment at a time. She glances at her watch. It’s time to see Crawford.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To anyone who is reading along out there - thank you!

She almost misses it when she’s conducting the external exam: a little blue circle, drawn in pen, around a mauve birthmark. Scully squints. It’s not particularly unique, albeit oddly shaped: a little rough approximation of a rhombus on the body’s left shoulder. Could a dermatologist have made it on the victim’s skin before the victim was murdered? Possibly. The woman could have done the circling herself, though the angle was an awkward one. Why a killer would circle a birth mark is beyond Scully, but she marks it down as a possibility in her report. 

No one has come to review the autopsy findings yet and it’s getting late. She glances at the clinical little analogue clock on the wall – 6:46 pm. That the reviewer is some unknown (well, everyone is unknown to her except Clarice) annoys her. She wouldn’t mind waiting for Clarice.

A knock at the door makes her jump. Jack waves to her from the little window. When he straightens up, his toros and neck fill it completely. He opens the door.

“Surprise!” His nose crinkles at the smell of the formaldehyde. “Finishing up?”

“You aren’t supposed to be in here,” Scully says. She takes off her gloves and goes to wash her hands. Jack may be comfortably slated for a promotion at timely intervals, but she needs every last detail of her behavior reported as perfect to move up. “We’re breaking protocol.”

“No one’s around.” He stands next to her and leans over to kiss her cheek.

Scully leans into his kiss in spite of herself. “I’m still waiting for someone to come hear my findings.”

Jack laughs. “You mean you haven’t just faxed them? That’s what you normally do you know.”

“Yes, I do know, Jack.”

Jack puts up his hands in mock surrender.

“The lead on the case has requested someone from the team review findings in person.”

“I thought you were on this team.”

“Another team member, then,” Scully says.

“When are they coming by?”

“Lord knows.”

Jack smiles and reaches out to stroke her cheek. “You’re a little flushed. Better set yourself straight there before your report.”

Scully resists batting his hand away. “I thought we were meeting at 7:00 anyway.” She wouldn’t have made it on time, of course, but then that was beside the point and Jack was often late as well.

“I thought I’d come by to surprise you.” He holds his hands in front of him loosely clasped together.

She softens. He is trying – knows that deep down, she likes surprises – and though it’s not in his nature to partake in them, he’s doing his best to give them to her. “I’ll be out just as soon as they come,” she promises. She presses a soft kiss to the rough stubble on his cheek.

***

At 7:05 pm a thin, angular-faced man appears in the window. Agent Crawford opens the door before she can get it for him. She stands beside the body – a solider waiting command. She feels on display – the same way she felt when she would present her report card to her father and stand, waiting for him to read it over. 

Crawford nods at her and makes his way to the other side of the body. “Anything of note?”

“How do you mean?” Scully is already pulling on a fresh pair of gloves.

“Anything to suggest ritual or cult activity?”

_Cult activity?_ Clarice mentioned, the night before, that the murders could be linked by some belief in ritual, but she hadn’t mentioned cults. What does one look for on a corpse to indicate cult activity, anyway? “The victim was clearly hung. The ligature marks on her wrists and ankles suggest being bound. They’re similar to those of the first victim. I think I managed to pull a couple of rope fibers from this corpse. The lab will have results tomorrow for its material.” She studies the blotchy, grey skin at the corpse’s ankle before glancing up at him. “And there’s this. She walks around the display table and taps the body’s shoulder. “It could be nothing but…”

Crawford is standing very close to her now, peering over her shoulder. “What am I looking at?”

“A circled birthmark. It could just be a doodle or from a doctor’s appointment, but I thought I’d make a note of it, just in case.”

  
Crawford stares at the birthmark for a moment longer. “Interesting.” He leans back, looking stiff and frail. “Thank you, Agent Scully.”

“So,” Crawford says, as they walk out of the autopsy bay, “Starling’s put you on the case then.”

“That’s right.” Scully winces at the sound of her own voice. She sounds childish to her own ears.

“When she told me this afternoon, I was a little upset that she didn’t consult me. But it seems like no harm was done.”

Her jaw clenches as they step into the elevator. Does Clarice actually like this man? “I hope not.”

He nods and raises his chin slightly. Well, he was her mentor at the academy. Perhaps she feels some loyalty to him. _At least she didn’t fuck him,_ a mean little voice inside her head quips. This she believes without proof. There is something in the physical way Clarice presents herself, holds herself, that makes Scully certain that she’s never entertained a single sexual thought about Crawford. The elevator door opens and the lazy yellow light of summer evening streams through the glass doors of the entryway and she pushes the voice from her mind before she dwells on it.

“Agent Willis?”

Jack leans against the brick of the building, just outside the front door. He looks up and kicks off of it. “Agent Crawford.”

They shake. Jack seems to surround Crawford, though they stand eye-to-eye. Then, Jack stands next to her. Scully feels Jack’s arm drape over her shoulder. He pulls her into his side and she resists for a moment – stays stiff in his arms.

Crawford glances between the two of them. He smirks. “And here I was thinking you just couldn’t get enough of crime reports, Willis.”

“Just waiting on this one here.” Jack’s hand squeezes her shoulder.

Crawford nods. “Take care of her, Willis. She’s good at her job.”

The sinking sun hits Scully’s eyes while Jack laughs.

***

“How do you know Agent Crawford?” Scully asks as she scrubs the remnants of red sauce from a dinner dish with Jack’s yellow sponge. He dries a dish next to her.

“We worked a couple of cases together, back when I was a junior agent.” Jack opens the cabinet in front of him and tucks away the clean plate. “He’s a good guy. Very patient.”

“Patient?”

“We were interviewing some people out hear Chesapeake Bay for a case. They weren’t the brightest bulbs in the box if you know what I mean, but we needed statements. Crawford knew just what to say – how to get them to trust him. He plays a bit into the culture, finds their perspective, you know what I mean?”

Scully doesn’t know but nods anyway.

***

Jack wants her to spend the night, but she insists she needs to go home. She remembered Clarice’s call over dinner and has been thinking about it – planning exactly what she should say and in what order – ever since. He looks disappointed as she grabs her bag – almost a little upset – but she kisses him at the door and promises to make it up to him over the weekend.

It’s nearly midnight when she makes it through her apartment door. The little entryway is full of the day’s residual heat. Her answering machine blinks merrily in the darkness and she smiles as she presses ‘play,’ not bothering to turn on the light. 

“Dana it’s me.” Clarice’s soft, southern tone leaks through the darkness. “Just, uh, calling to see how it all went. Call me back when you can.”

Her first impulse is to pick up the phone. She resists. She’ll set her alarm for a little earlier than normal, so she has time to call Clarice at 8:00 AM sharp. Any earlier seems cavalier. She trudges toward her bedroom and tosses her blazer on the bed in front of her before flopping down on it herself. Her pulse reaches her feet and her heels throb.

The phone rings.

Scully sighs. She doesn’t feel like talking to Jack about weekend plans or whatever he forgot to tell her before she left. Still, she pulls herself up and scooches herself up the bed. She reaches over and picks up the receiver near her bed. “Hello?”

“Dana – I’m so sorry.” Clarice’s voice sounds hushed and breathy The line crackles.

“Don’t worry. It’s alright.” Scully suddenly feels wired and away. “What is it?”

“We’ve found another body. It’s uh…” Clarice sucks in a breath. “I’d, well if you can I’d like you to see it. Get your opinion on it and its…position. I know it’s late.”

“It’s position?”

“It’s posed. I just – I understand if you can’t I’ll get someone to take photos. I just thought you might – well you might see something in it nobody else here is seeing.” Clarice’s voice wilts as the line crackles again.

Scully stands. “Where should I meet you?”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning! This chapter has some gory details and some homophobic language (briefly - OC).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone whose still with me! I know I said that I'd shoot for updates every Wednesday and Saturday. Turns out life is crazy busy so look for updates on Wednesdays :) 
> 
> Take care out there.

The priest is still quaking. He sits in the wood chair in front of her, his weathered, wrinkled hands clasped in front of him. The rectory is wood-paneled and full of shadows. A single, plain crucifix sits on a mantle at the room’s far wall.

He is rubbing his hands together now, even as they shake. _The Macbeth Effect,_ Clarice thinks. She’s never seen it in person. She leans forward a little and waits until he is ready to make eye-contact. “I’m sorry Father,” she says. “I just need to get the facts straight for the statement. You saw a woman praying. You told her you needed to lock the church up. When she didn’t respond, you approached her, tapped on her shoulder, and her neck fell to the side. Is that right?”

Father Jacob nods again. “That’s right. I gave her as much time as I could to pray. That’s what I thought I was doing. I didn’t want to disturb her, but I had to lock up. We’ve had vandalism.” He says _vandalism_ like he is squeezing the word through his windpipe.

“That’s when her neck tipped?”

“I didn’t realize she was cut like that. I didn’t think it was _possible._ ”

White headlight beams flash through the rectory window and washes them momentarily. Clarice squints at it until the sound of the car stops and the light disappears. “Thank you, Father.”

Father Jacob nods. “Do you need me now?”

“We may have to contact you again in the future, but we don’t need to disturb you any more tonight.”

He nods again and shakily takes out a rosary from his pocket.

As Clarice leaves the rectory, she glances at her watch. 1:23 am. She feels as if her body is a discarded tin can, empty but for a few rocks that spark as she moves from one place to another. When a police officer called her an hour ago, his voice wavering and high-pitched, she was laying on top of her covers in nothing but a black t-shirt, thinking about Ardelia. The shrill ring of the phone in the kitchen cut through the apartment’s darkness, and she got up and wandered to the kitchen out of curiosity more than duty. For a moment, she thought it may be Dana Scully with case updates. Discussing the autopsy meant she wasn’t thinking about all the times she could have told Ardelia she loved her, or even liked her, and didn’t. 

News of the body hit her in the gut. The officer apologized twice. “We were just told, if something like this happens. I’m sorry. I –”

Now, she meets Dana outside the wooden doors of St Margaret’s Church near Richmond.

“Where’s the body?” Dana sounds a little breathless.

“Inside – still mostly in the position in which it was found.”

“Which was?” Dana searched Clarice’s eyes. There is a little yellow light near the church door that keeps buzzing.

“Posed at the alter. When Father Jacob tapped her shoulder, the head fell at a right angle to the side. The throat had been almost completely severed. There’s a lot of blood now, but there wasn’t before.” Clarice is no doctor, but she knows that the cut on the neck should have bled, even when the head was upright.

The church’s nave smells musty. A few overhead lights illuminate the wood pews and a yellowed painting of Mary on the right wall. Rims of red candles are visible in the left corner. The body is still fixed, praying below a metal crucifix, with only its head jutted out of place. She hears Dana’s breath intake. Then, without Clarice realizing, they are making their way toward it.

Dana stops directly behind the body and swallows. Then, after a pause, she kneels on the cold stone at the corpse’s side and stares at the exposed ligament and bone of the neck. “He must’ve positioned her just right to keep her upright,” Dana murmurs. “I think, though, the head was secured with some kind of surgical glue – a light coating so that when Father Jacob tapped her the seal broke.” She looks up at Clarice. “I’ll have to check, though.”

Clarice nods. This is the first time she’s heard Dana refer to a body as a person, not an it, and the gesture feels oddly intimate.

“This one’s far more dramatic than the others.”

“Yes.” Clarice’s mind has been turning over this observation since she first saw the body.

Dana stands and makes her way over to Clarice’s side. They stare at the dead woman together as if at a vigil.

“She’s on the Our Father,” Dana says.

“What?”

She points to a rosary, clutched in the dead woman’s left hand.

***

It’s 2:00 am and Clarice feels empty. She wants to close her eyes and forget everything – can’t imagine tossing and turning with her own thoughts as she did earlier that night. Crawford will expect a report by late morning. Her hours for sleep are dwindling.

Yet somehow, heading back to her dark apartment with the image of the woman in her mind is more awful than her exhaustion. She needs fuel – something to fill her – but more than that she needs an excuse to stay somewhere well-lit and with other people. Next to her, Dana’s eyes look sunken but her right hand is fiddling her left hand’s fingernails. “There’s a twenty-four-hour Denny’s in town. Want to grab something before heading home?”

Dana nods. “Meet you there?”

When they are settled in a plastic, yellow booth, Clarice orders a stack of pancakes and a glass of orange juice. She has skipped dinner, didn’t realize how much her body craved something to fill her until she was sitting down with the picture-menu in front of her. 

“Two scrambled eggs, please,” Dana says and smiles.

“That’s all?” The waitress looks up expectantly and soft beginnings of wrinkles crinkle around her eyes. Her brown hair is pulled neatly into a long French braid. Clarice notices how she teases her lower lip a little when she looks at her. They nod. She tucks the little pad in her apron. “I’ll bring you two some waters while you wait.” The waitress holds her gaze on Clarice for a moment longer.

Dana catches the look and smiles. She leans back against the booth across from her. “Hungry?”

Clarice shrugs. “I didn’t eat much this evening.”

“I’m sorry I miss your call by the way. I hope I didn’t hold you up.”

“No! No. Just in my own head I guess.”

“I understand.” Dana picks up the paper scrap that held the silverware in the napkin and fiddles with it.

The waitress brings the water to the table. Clarice grips her glass and relishes the feeling of the cold, condensation on her skin. She thanks the waitress again and the waitress tells her it’s nothing.

“My boyfriend – Jack Willis – knows Agent Crawford, actually.” Dana says.

“Oh?”

“They worked some case together in Chesapeake, apparently.”

“Right. I remember.” The people of a little town were suspicious that a local high school teacher was hiding some dark secret – one man said bodies in his basement. She couldn’t remember why Crawford was a part of the investigation.

“We were following up on a case lead for several murders – something to do with drug crimes. Agent Crawford thought that there may be a lead out in this little town – a tip about a high school teacher there. He was clean.” Clarice clears her throat. “But Agent Crawford still though the murderer was connected to the place, so he, uh, coaxed a lot of personal information out of the community – secrets you know.”

“Jack said he was good at connecting with them.”

As it turned out, the high school teacher was hiding something: his long-term relationship with a man in New York.

She had revered Crawford until that case, defended him even when Ardelia hugged her tightly and told her she’d kill him for letting her walk into Bill’s house without backup. She remembers the exact moment she stopped admiring him, feeling proud to be his protégé. He was talking to the man who owned the bait shop in the town – a suspect. The news of the high school teacher’s lover had leaked and everyone and their mother knew it within half a day. The bait shop owner was grumbling, sniffing snot from his grey beard and calling it a disgrace to the town. Crawford was trying to talk to him about fishing, trying to get him to engage. _It’s places like these you need soft interview tactics,_ he had told her. _You need to make a personal connection._

“He, uh, he could play to their prejudices. He’s a good actor.”

“Prejudices?”

The bait man slammed a box of tackle on the wood counter. “They shouldn’t let those kinds of people around kids,” he said.

“I completely agree,” Crawford said smoothly. “It’s unhealthy for children, being introduced to that kind of life.”

Clarice clutched the notepad in her hand. She knew Crawford was telling the man what he wanted to hear but at the expense of validating spewed slurs.

She looks down at her hands now, and wonders where the pancakes are. She’s quickly losing her appetite again. “One of the suspects was a gay man and the town wasn’t particularly accepting.”

“Oh.”

Clarice glances up at Dana. Their eyes meet and lock. Dana looks sad, like she understands something about how Clarice feels.

“Breakfast is served.” The waitress at her side makes her jump. A steaming stack of pancakes appear in front of her.

Dana thanks the woman and then turns back to Clarice. “That was shitty of him, if you don’t mind me saying.”

Clarice nods. “Yeah, it was.”

Dana starts the pick at her eggs. “So –”

“Do you ladies need anything else?” The waitress asks. “You’re sure you don’t want some coffee?”

“This’s wonderful.” Clarice says. For a moment she wonders about the woman – who she goes home to and if she usually works nights.

“That’s good to hear. You looked like you deserved them, coming in so late.” The waitress says. “I’m Rosie.”

Clarice forces herself to stop eating. She smiles at Rosie. “It’s nice to meet you. Clarice.”

“Clarice. I’ll remember that.” There are two, tiny start earrings that swish a little as she turns to walk back the kitchen.

When the waitress leaves, she notices that Dana has put her fork down and coy little smile tugs at the edge of her mouth. The usual panic that someone at work might _know_ doesn’t catch inside Clarice. In fact, Dana looks almost pleased and Clarice feels a little giddy.

Maybe it’s the evil image of the dead woman she is fighting to keep compartmentalized, or the early hour or maybe it’s Ardelia’s news but Clarice feels a surge of confidence. “She’s awfully pretty,” she murmurs.

“I think she likes you,” Dana murmurs back.

Clarice feels little bubbles of anticipation in her stomach and she hides a smile. “Oh, I don’t know about that.”

Dana takes a bite of her egg. “Want to bet?”

When they leave, Rosie has written her phone number of the receipt.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All of the smaller towns are made up (as are the addresses!) as I know so so little about Virginian geography besides the larger city areas. Thanks for reading!

She is staring down the aisle from the back of the church. It seems to extend like a red snake tongue cutting through the darkness on either side of it. Scully advances, strides forward toward the church’s stage and alter, toward the praying figure.

Her stomach clenches. The wholes pace is silent – even her footsteps don’t echo. She reaches the figure and stops, faces her back. Slowly, she extends out her hand, placing it on the figure’s shoulder. It feels icy cold.

The head topples and makes a thump when it hits the cold tile. It rolls and two black eyes stare at Scully. She wants to scream but there is no sound, no sound ---

\---she wakes up gasping. Her heart pounds and her fingers clutch the comforter.

It’s the second night now she’s had this dream and she’s starting to get think that she’s going to have to do something about it like staring up therapy again. Last night she called Melissa but hung up after the first ring. Talking about the dreams felt herculean – especially with Melissa and her shoddy phone connection – and she was too tired.

Beside her, Jack doesn’t stir. This is the second night now, too, that she has failed to question Jack about his exact involvement with the case Clarice told her about at Denny’s. Jack told her once that he tried to behave like a modern man with respect for tradition. Until last night she dutifully avoided thinking too much about what he meant. Now, she couldn’t shake the feeling that Jack might approve of Crawford’s actions. Hell, deep down he might even believe in the message. And if he did, what would he think of someone like her?

If she’s honest with herself, she’s known she didn’t want to spend her life with him since the day he asked her to dinner, but she likes to tuck that knowledge under a rug whenever she can. Jack feels steady if not safe. She likes his control, how they go to bed early and talk about career aspirations. He revels in organization, blossoms in command and there is something perversely comfortable about playing the domestic when she is with him.

The thought of Jack nodding along to Crawford’s plan while spewing slurs makes her feel ashamed to even like this comfort that he gives her. She needs to know if Jack heard about Crawford’s behavior in that bait shop – if he _knew._

She sits up and creeps into Jack’s kitchen. The wood floor feels cold on her feet. She pulls open a yellow cabinet door and takes one of Jack’s thick-rimmed glasses from its spot inside the cabinet. The sound of the water gushing from the faucet distorts the thick blanket of quiet in the apartment. Scully wonders about Clarice. She hasn’t spoken with her since their meal at Denny’s and she is buzzing with thoughts about what she will say when she gets the chance to talk to her again. She wants to make sure Clarice is okay, and a little selfishly, wants Clarice to tell her, somehow, without her having to ask, a way to push the image of the dead woman out of her mind. Clarice has experience with this kind of thing. Scully sips the water and thinks for a moment about how Clarice and the waitress locked eyes and Clarice’s eyelashes fluttered. Scully had felt coy for a moment – the best kind of witness, ready to observe a blush.

That Clarice likes women is unsurprising; in fact, Scully wonders how she didn’t put the pieces together earlier. She was known at the academy as someone who ‘didn’t date’ but then lots of trainees focused on their work. How she talks about her friend Ardelia, though, should have been a clue.

Her toes feel code. She shivers. The cold sweat has dried on her skin. She is sleepy now, dampened her fear in her mind’s idle gossip with itself. She tiptoes back into Jack’s bed, climbs in, and pulls the covers over herself, turning away from him.

***

Clarice seems jittery and distracted over their lunch, even as she asks about Scully’s interpretations of her autopsy findings and general theories.

“Is he consistent when he marks them?” Clarice is doing her best to focus on the blue circles on both corpses.

“If he marks them,” Scully says, and crunches a wide piece of iceberg lettuce in half.

“It’s a unique link.”

“It’s only the two bodies- not the one in the river.”

Clarice shakes her head. “You said yourself the body pulled from the river wouldn’t have any markings made with pen or even marker.”

“But we can’t _know._ ”

Clarice’s leg begins the bounce up and down and she sighs. “Well, if the circle was a link – what do you think it means?”

This is a question Scully has been avoiding. The autopsy on the body in the church is the hardest she’s ever had to do and she doesn’t know why he’s seen plenty of bodies. She looks down at her salad. It is a pitiful salad, but she is trying to cut back on sugar. “I don’t know. Maybe it does have something to do with a cult or a fetish, or maybe both women happened to visit their doctor lately and need a birthmark checked out. They’re on the different parts of each body, after all.”

When she looks back up she realizes that Clarice is watching someone across the room. She turns. She’s come to recognize Clarice’s friend Ardelia. She’s laughing next to a woman with long, black hair.

“Clarice,” Scully says?

Clarice jumps a little and then turns back to face her. “Sorry.” She clears her throat.

“Are you alright?”

“Just fine.” Clarice gives her a polite little smile without showing her teeth. They are alike in this way: they are always _just fine_ at work. Scully notices that Clarice’s leg has started bouncing again. “What about you?”

“I’m…” Scully hesitates. She trusts Clarice – trusts her more than the other agents she’s worked with so far, but there’s something mechanical in her that will not allow her to admit that she’s exhausted from two nights of nightmares and is thinking about contacting the FBI on-staff therapist (again). “I’m looking forward to an evening off. No autopsy tonight,” she says.

Clarice smiles. “Any plans?”

Scully shakes her head. “Just dinner with Jack, I guess. You?”

The edges of Clarice’s mouth tug upwards. “I have a date, actually.”

“A date?” Scully feels tickled. A little thrill rushes over her, tailed by a twinge of jealousy that surprises her.

Clarice speaks so softly now, that Scully strains to hear. “The uh, server from Denny’s?” Her tone tilts upward. “You were right. She liked me after all.”

Scully grins at Clarice even as she calculates how far either she or the waitress will have to drive to meet up – The town of Doswell is only twenty-five minutes from Richmond but an hour from Quantico. She realizes that Clarice may, in fact, not live anywhere near Quantico. Does she commute in? They haven’t talked about personal lives much beyond this moment. “Where are you meeting?” She asks.

“A bar near Greenbridge, actually. She, uh, she’s got a friend who lives near there and she says it’s a better place to be.”

“Oh that’s by me. I live by Paulstown.” She flips through her mental catalogue of all the places there is to eat near her and comes up short. She spends most of her time in Quantico or at Jack’s, in Alexandria. “Where are you going?” She asks.

“I’m not sure. Katie picked it out.” Clarice croaks a little at her date’s name. She looks down at her hands.

“I bet it’ll be great.” Scully reaches across the table, squeezes Clarice’s hand and forces Clarice too meet her eyes. A friend of hers, Ellen, did this same thing the first time she went out with Emily her junior year of college. She was nervous even telling Ellen – was sweating through her shirt. Ellen’s face, smile, voice, in that moment is cemented in her mind, makes her feel good. If she can give even a fraction of that to Clarice, she’s done at least one good thing coming to the FBI. 

“I hope so,” Clarice says.

***

Over dinner, she says to herself, I will talk to Jack about his case with Crawford. Before Daniel Waterstone, she would simply have forgotten the conversation with Clarice and given Jack the benefit of the doubt that he didn’t know anything about Crawford’s actions. Daniel strung out a half-lie like fishing twine – a lie so thin and translucent she knew, deep down, it wasn’t true. When things ended, she promised herself she’d never let herself believe a lie because it was easier than facing truth. 

That Jack is ambitious she knows, but whether he condones blatant homophobia, she honestly cannot say and this bothers her. She won’t kid herself; she can imagine Jack nodding along to Crawford and the bait shop owner’s slurs. _Think about what he’d think of you._ The mean little voice is back. She shoves it down – stashes even farther in herself then she has stashed the image of the dead woman in the church.

She is pouring them each a glass of wine in her kitchen. It’s 8:30 already, but then Jack didn’t get home until half an hour ago and then he wanted to shower. Her stomach feels full of air. “Jack,” she says, and concentrates on the thick red liquid as it spills from the bottle.

“Hmm?” Jack is taking the gnocchi she made last week from her freezer. He places it on the counter before moving in to find the sauce.

“Remember you said you know Crawford from a case?”

“What about him?”

She takes a breath. She was raised to be direct but deferential to authority. _Jack isn’t authority. Is he?_ “How closely did you two work?”

Jack shrugs. “Pretty close. I worked more on busting the deals while Crawford was trying to get to the source.”

“Do you know how he made all those contacts in town?”

Jack looks up. “I told you he’s good at gaining people’s trust.”

Scully clutches the neck of the wine bottle. “Even when it means saying questionable things?”

“Look. Those people were rough around the edges, sure. But from what I’ve heard, Crawford never agreed to anything morally dubious.”

“That’s not what I meant.” The two full glasses stare back at her like eyes. She does not pick up her glass.

“Why do you even care, Dana? You’re just doing the autopsies for him.”

Scully cringes. She wants him to leave – spend her night alone now, curled up on her couch. She doesn’t want to think about breaking up with Jack, though the way she’s looking at her now she realizes she probably will.

The phone rings. Scully walks over to where Jack is standing and places the glass of wine on the counter next to him. Then, she walks into her bedroom to answer the phone she keeps on her dresser.

“D-Dana?” Clarice’s voice sounds low. Her words seep together like maple syrup.

“Clarice?”

“I – uh. I’m sorry but I don’t – my…are you busy?”

“I’m not busy,” Scully says. “Are you alright?”

“Can you come pick me up? I’m, uh – I need a ride home. But only if, you’re, you know, free.”

“I’m coming now,” Scully says. “Where are you?”

“By the 7-11 on Greendale.”

***

She’s been sweating on her way over, feels the damp patches under her arms. She swings into the 7-11 parking lot. As Scully watches Clarice sway toward her, she loosens her death-grip on the steering wheel of her Ford. 

She is still reaching across the passenger seat to unlock the door as Clarice gets to the car. When she pulls the lock up and leans back, however, Clarice stays still – waits a moment like she is an apparition. Then, she swings open the door and climbs inside, tucking herself into the seat and folding her hands in her lap.

“Home?” Scully asks.

Clarice nods. 

Scully glances across at her. Clarice looks completely neutral – no crease in her forehead, no curve of her lip. She could be wax. She stares out the windshield. Scully flicks on the radio. A tinny country song starts to play.

“Address?” Scully says gently.

“44 Thistle Drive, Alexandria.” Clarice starts. “Is that too far?”

“Of course not.” She pulls out onto the main boulevard – mercifully empty. The sound of the motor and the song intermingle. It isn’t silence, not really.

“Tough night?”

A single nod. Then Clarice’s lower lip trembles.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! So this is probably the least case-related chapter. There's no assault or anything but a creepy guy fair warning. Take care out there :)

_Earlier_

Clarice rocks on her heels. The bar – Sam’s place – has a sunken entrance, three steps below the parking-lot level at the back of the strip-mall. She glances at her watch. 7:03. Katie is barely late, and there’s no reason to go inside just yet. Besides, she tells herself, the air finally feels warm and not hot, and the sky is striped and blended with reds, oranges and blues. Better to wait out here then in there, in a sorry corner trying to avoid small talk with a patron.

7:05. Okay. So Katie is fashionably late to their date. Normally people do that, right? She isn’t sure. She hasn’t been on a date since her third year of college.

A group of teenagers pass by her, all with ripped band t-shirts. Of course, maybe they aren’t teenagers but in their early twenties and she’s just getting old. She isn’t sure how strict the bar is. Clarice smooths down her white button-down and bites her lip. 7:07.

If she leaves now, she won’t really be hurting anyone. She can call Katie from her home and feign illness. Clarice stays still. When she was very small – when her father was still around – she was terrified of bees. She’d see them bumbling from bush to flower in the garden and run into the center of the yard. One warm evening in late May her father had beckoned her over to the hydrangea bush – his pride and joy – and told her not to be afraid. “Come look at how it works,” he told her. “See how it works, and it won’t seem so scary.” It is this little slip of a memory that keeps Clarice in her spot.

7:09. She considers that Katie may already be waiting for Clarice at the bar, wondering where she is. It seems unlikely – Clarice got to Sam’s Place at 7:00 sharp and Katie doesn’t seem like the kind of person to be early, from what Clarice has gathered – but it’s not impossible.

Another group heads into the bar. A woman glances at her as she passes.

7:11.

Clarice takes a deep breath and tilts her head up, takes in the baby-blue over the setting sun. She drops her head and turns on her heels, using the moment to force herself to walk into the bar.

The dark, damp air washes over and she feels dizzy as she adjusts to the yellow lighting. The bar smells like body odor and vodka. In the center of the room, huddles of people move around pool tables. Others talk at tall, circular tables, orbiting them. At the far wall are fading maroon-colored vinal booths that curve around wood tables with a darker stain – a stain that matches the wood paneling on the wall.

in untucked suits smoke in the back corner. The teenagers from earlier have already started a game of pool. She does not see Katie.

“All alone?” A man in a polo shirt grins at her from the spot where he leans on the edge of the bar. She pretends not to hear him, but he straightens and walks toward her anyway.

She brushes her hip with her fingertips. It has been a long time since she’s been alone at night without her gun. “I’m alright. Thank you.”

She is about to leave when she feels his hand on her arm. It’s not a firm grip, but she winces anyway. His hands are slick on her skin.

“C’mon. How about one drink?”

Clarice tugs her arm away with more force than she intends. She stumbles back and surveys him. His jaw is square-shaped and his hair is matted and curly at his forehead. “Thank you Sir, but I need to leave.” She winces again – this time at the edge of a drawl in her voice.

“Oh I _like_ Sir,” he says and reaches a whisky-wet finger to trace her jawline.

She hits it away – the force of her slap making the skin on her hand red.

“Bitch.” He turns back toward the bar.

Coming here was a terrible idea. Clarice spins on her heels and strides toward the exit. She reaches the door just as a woman enters. She stops short. “Katie.”

“Sorry I’m late!” Katie is breathing hard. “Mom had me helping her clean,”

“It’s no bother,” Clarice says and takes a little step back. Her heart is still drumming in her chest, and she wonders for a moment if she should cancel anyway, but Katie smiles at her.

“It’s a bit of a dive here, but the drinks are great.” She is wearing light green eyeshadow and a pale pink tank top. Her blond hair is pulled back into a thick French braid, looser than the one she wore at the diner. “Shall we?”

They walk side-by-side into the bar. Clarice feels stiff. She tries to locate the man from earlier out of the corner of her eye. Katie’s fingers brush hers, and a little jolt of electricity pulses through her. She glances up. Katie winks, and Clarice feels her cheeks flush. For the first time that evening, she smiles.

Dating might be fun. It’s been ages; she’s probably just forgotten. Or never knew. She’s never dated a girl before.

When their drinks are in their hands, she faces Clarice and smiles again. “Cheers?”

The glasses clink softly, and they sip.

Clarice swallows. She can smell the liquor as she sips her rum and coke. “How was your day?”

Katie’s gaze has shifted over Clarice’s shoulder.

“Katie!” A woman’s voice squeals. “You’re _actaully_ not working!” The woman almost crushes Clarice into the edge of a barstool as she wedges herself between them and hugs Katie.

“I know!” Katie hugs her back.

The woman finally pulls away and steps back. Clarice smells liquor on her breath. She catches Clarice’s eye for a moment and offers a curt smile. “Why didn’t you tell us you were free?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” She clears her throat. “This is Clarice.”

“Hmm. Hi.” The woman flicks a few strands of a long black ponytail behind her head. She has a thick neck and wide shoulders.

“Hello,” Clarice says.

“Oh your accent is so cute!” Suddenly, she is all smiles again.

“Abby!” Another woman is calling and waving at them from a booth across the room.

“Come join us!” Abby says to Katie.

“Oh, that’s okay.”

“No. Please.” Abby whines. She looks at Clarice. “You come too.” 

“Next time. I promise,” Katie says, swinging Abby’s hand. “I’m here with Clarice.”

“What is she, your date? C’mon. Clarice won’t mind. Do you Clarice?”

Suddenly, Abby is staring into her with the focus she saw Dana stare at the last body during the autopsy review. Clarice isn’t sure what to say.

“One drink.” Katie says, tugging on Abby’s arm.

***

She has been taking shots each time they are brought to the table – only one at a time but enough so that her head feels a little balloon-like. Each one keeps her occupied for a moment, gives her something for her body to coordinate. Around her the other titter on about someone they all seem to know who’s getting divorced. She’s nearly falling off the edge of the circular booth and is almost opposite Katie.

The other women – Katie included – sway and bump and each, sending one into fits of giggles that ripples outward. Clarice can see the lines where their foundation has separated from their faces, little pearls of sweat along the edges. Their eye makeup is dark and streaked.

Clarice knows how to hold her liquor – knows instinctually – but in this moment she wishes she could be giggling along with the rest of them. It looks like a lot of fun. Ardelia would get her to laugh whenever they went out with other trainees, drinks or no drinks.

“Clarice,” Abby wheezes.

Clarice starts. No one had addressed her in thirty minutes.

“I think that man over there is _into_ you.” She points across the bar.

There he is again – the man from before, staring at her. She catches his eye for a moment and – no, no – he walks over to the table to stand in front of Clarice.

“Ladies.”

Abby says something to get his attention, but Clarice isn’t sure exactly, because she is staring at Katie, pleading with her to meet her eyes.

Her head hurts and her throat is dry and if this stupid man smirks at her again she is going to scream. She is going to leave now – give Katie a silent goodbye and slip away with some excuse about work the others probably won’t hear.

Something wet and cold pours into the junction between her hips and thighs. “Wha-” Abby’s hand hovers over the table as her beer spills across, forming a waterfall into Clarice’s lap. She jumps up, slides out of the booth and peers down, her arms jutted out to her sides like a bird. 

“Sorry!”

“Wow there,” the man says. “Looks like we’ve got a little accident on our hands.”

The women at the table are laughing – all except Katie who stays silent. She locks eyes with Clarice. Clarice opens and closes her mouth like a fish. Katie looks down.

Clarice grabs her bag, lowers her head and pushes her way past the horrible man.

She finds a payphone outside and clutches the dirty black receiver before feeding the machine two quarters. A grubby blue light washes flickers over her head and she notices a group of dark figures from the corner of her eye. They are likely harmless – likely the teenagers from earlier but she is cold and miserable and at this moment waiting for a cab to haul itself out from Alexandria is impossible. She can’t wait.

Her breath is coming in short, fast bursts now. She wants to run the shower to scalding, sit under the hot spray, hugging her knees, and burn this shit night off her skin.

Her inhibitions are still loose enough that she doesn’t even second guess herself when she dials Dana’s number.

***

_Now_

Dana’s car smells like fresh laundry. She’s kept the radio playing quiet country music through the little sobs Clarice has been stifling since she settled into the car. Clarice’s makeup is smudged now and salty tear-streaks have dried to her cheeks. She stares directly in front of her, counting her breaths and only when she is confident that they are steady and full does she look at Dana. Dana’s hand rests on the console space between the two seats. It is open, outstretched. She hesitates, but the sound of her own sniffle prompts her to slip her own hand into Dana’s. Dana squeezes it.

“Left or right?” Dana asks softly.

Clarice glances out the window. They’re coming off the exit for Alexandria – the big green sign lit up from underneath. “Right,” she croaks.

Clarice leads Dana to her apartment in little, hushed responses to the same question each time – left or right. It sounds like a little chant, and Clarice feels good about knowing the right response each time. 

When Dana reaches the building’s front she parks on the street. She sighs and turns off the car.

Clarice clears her throat. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry.”

The sun has finally set and the darkness rests like still water. “Thank you for coming to get me.”

“Of course.” Dana looks at her. “Are you alright?”

“I’ll be better in the morning.” Clarice bites her cheek. She feels settled now, embarrassed still, but steady. Dana has a little crinkle in her forehead, like she is inspecting Clarice for injury. She has made a friend, Clarice realizes. A good friend – one worth keeping. “Do you want to come up for something? I have coffee, tea, water.”

A car passes them on the street. Dana smiles at Clarice through the darkness. “Tea sounds wonderful,” she says.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunately I have three papers due tomorrow and so this chapter has NO proofreading. I'll make edits tomorrow but I wanted to get it up just 'cause

Scully sits at a small, circular wood table in Clarice’s living room clasping a cup of chamomile tea. Clarice has disappeared behind a door into what Scully assumes is the kitchen to find cookies. She looks around the room. The walls are pale blue, decorated with posters of impressionist prints. The couch, which divides the room, is brown and fluffy.

Clarice reappears. “I only have Chips Ahoy. I hope that’s okay.”

“Chips Ahoy are delicious. Especially with tea.” She takes one, places it on a napkin in front of her, and hesitates for a moment. It is late for sugar and she’s yet to eat dinner. She glances at Clarice’s cup. “Black tea at night?”

Clarice shrugs and sits down. She smiles when Scully’s stomach grumbles audibly. “Hungry?”

“I haven’t had dinner,” Scully admits.

Clarice’s eyes widen. “I’m – ”

“Don’t you dare say you’re sorry,” Scully says. She bites into a cookie. The little chocolate chips melt in her mouth.

“I have some leftovers.” Clarice stands up. “Is chicken salad okay? Or I can make you something light. I know it’s late.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Scully says. “Just sit down.”

Clarice raises her eyebrows and just out her chin. “I can order takeout for you.”

“Really it’s fine.” Scully stomach growls again. _Chicken salad sounds delicious right about now._

“Dana.” Clarice is staring at her with more confidence and intention than Scully has seen all evening. This is the Clarice from the crime scene, the one she imagines she would have met if they had the same classes at Quantico.

“The chicken salad sounds lovely.”

Clarice grins, nods and turns to head into the kitchen. Scully gets up and follows with her tea in her hand.

She enters a galley kitchen, painted soft yellow with white tiles. The appliances are old, but clean. Clarice strides over to an ancient white fridge and pulls out a Tupperware container. There’s a photograph on the counter, propped up by a wood frame, where Clarice is hugging an older woman with salt and pepper hair. They are laughing.

“It’s mustard-based,” Clarice says, pulling a loaf of white bakery bread from the fridge and placing it on the counter. She grabs the cutting board from the drying rack and slices a thick piece. “Honey mustard. It’s good. I promise.” She pauses. “You aren’t allergic – are you?”

Scully shakes her head. Somehow, Clarice cooking nice meals for herself makes her happy.

Little yellow cubes of chicken are speckled with black pepper and topped with shaved carrot. Clarice scoops some on a plate. “I almost forgot!” She pulls out another container with lettuce leaves and lays some on top of the bread. Then she spoons the chicken salad onto the lettuce. “Here we are.”

“It looks delicious.” Scully takes the plate and a fork, and Clarice ferries her teacup back into the front room. Once she’s sat back down at the table, she pops a piece of chicken in her mouth and hums. Suddenly, she feels ravenous. She shovels two, three bites in and forces herself to slow down and look at Clarice. She swallows. “Thank you.”

“The least I could do.” Clarice is smiling at her again.

“What?  


“It’s just nice…seeing someone enjoy my food.”

“I’ll come over anytime.” Scully takes another bite.

Clarice chuckles. “You’re good company, Dana.”

“Bad company tonight?” Scully asks.

She sobers. “She ran into a friend at the bar and…” she takes a sip of her tea. “We ended up joining them.”

“The friend crashed your date?”

“I don’t think she knew it was a date,” Clarice mutters.

“Katie didn’t correct her?” Scully feels her cheeks flush.

Clarice shakes her head slowly from right to left. “It can be hard.” She pauses and swallows. “To tell people. Really hard.” She takes another cookie, bites into it, chews and swallows. “There’s more.”

Scully raises her eyebrows and waits.

“There was this guy who was…persistent. He tried flirting with me earlier and I told him no, but he came over to where we were sitting just as I got a drink spilled on me. He made a joke everyone seemed to think was pretty funny.”

Scully clenches her jaw. “She laughed at you?” She is angry now. She wants to find Katie and yell at her, call her a bitch, call her all the names that won’t do any good, won’t help either of them.

“Katie didn’t. She just kept silent.”

“Not good enough,” Scully says. She puts the fork down and it clatters on her plate.

“It can be hard,” Clarice repeats, looking down at it.

“That’s not an excuse to let your date get mocked by some asshole.” Scully keeps her gaze on Clarice, who doesn’t meet her eyes. Clarice doesn’t deserve her aggression but she can’t help herself: it spills out of her, seems to pull at the edges of other dim memories of shitty friends. _That night at the bar. All of them crossed and giggling as some guy followed her and Emily around with dumb pick-up lines. She remembers the shame pressing on her chest. She didn’t even know why she felt ashamed in the first place. And her friend and her friend’s friends, cackling like a God-damn laugh track._

Clarice sighs. “Well, it’s over now.”

Scully bites her lower lip. She sees the color in Clarice’s cheeks and the memory slips away. Clarice has been so calm and vulnerable – has collected her hopes like small stones and held them out, piled in her palm, for Scully to see. She wants to reciprocate, channel that instinct to share a little of yourself, so another feels closer to you. She hasn’t felt this way since before starting at the academy.

And yet the shame is creeping back and it’s a different kind of shame. At some point after the bar incident, she stopped holding Emily’s hand in public. She never mentioned her to friends the way she did when they first started dating. And then at graduation…no not tonight. “I – ”

Clarice looks up and leans forward a little across the table. It is Scully’s turn to flush. “Maybe I shouldn’t be judgmental.”

Clarice is a good listener. She knows, somehow, that Scully isn’t finished speaking, even as Scully pauses, takes three deep breaths and eats another piece of chicken. “I’m – I like men of course but I – ”

Her gaze from across the table is a perfect neutral, expectant. Is this how she looks in an interview? Do criminals spill out confessions in response to that face. Her eyes, her lips give no hint of expectation.

“I like women, too.” Scully finishes. “I’m bisexual.”

“Bisexual?” The corner of Clarice’s mouth tugs upward.

“Mmm.” Scully shrugs. “I know you don’t hear about it so much but…I’m here.” She meets Clarice’s eyes.

Clarice is smiling now – a full wide smile. “You’re here.”

***

“I’ve been on a few dates with women. And I had a girlfriend in college,” Scully says. “Emily. But I didn’t even tell my parents about us…or about me.”

They are sitting together, draped across Clarice’s couch. Scully has sunken herself into the couch cushions.

“My foster mother doesn’t know about me either,” Clarice says. “I’m twenty-eight years old and I’ve never told her. Never had a girlfriend even.” She scoffs. “I’ve dated men instead and I don’t even like men.” She snuggles further down into the couch. The air has finally cooled.

“You’ll get there,” Scully says. “It may not have worked out with Katie but that doesn’t mean anything.” When Clarice rolls her eyes, Scully laughs. “I’m serious. Look. Next Saturday, this case allowing, let’s go out. I know a place in DC. It’s a good bar – not like that dive you were at tonight.”

“I’m not sure.”

“There’s no pressure,” Scully says. “And even if we decide to go and we don’t like it, there’s a bookstore that’s open until 2am not too far away.”

“How did you know I like books?”

“I work for the FBI.” Scully points to the case at the far end of the room, stuffed with titles.

Clarice laughs. “Alright. Next weekend. Case allowing.” She pauses. “About the case.”

“Oh?”

“I’ve been thinking. I know Crawford is bent on this cult thing. I don’t think it’s a cult killing.”

Scully feels a little peel of glee at that thought of Crawford being wrong in his assessment.

“It seems unlikely that everything would be so under the radar,” Clarice continues. “But I do think there’s something ritualistic to the killings. Warped, but there.”

Scully sits up. Her eyes feel a little scratchy and she yawns before refocusing on Clarice. “That tracks.”

“And I think those blue circles on the bodies have something to do with it.”

“What?” Scully wishes she hadn’t raised them as a talking-point in the first place. They’re likely the result of a coincidence and there’s no way to know if the river body had one that was washed away, or was unmarked.

“They’re a clue, Dana. We’re overlooking something.”

“Something about the victims?”

Clarice gives a single nod. “What does the killer see in those victims? That’s what we’re missing.”

***

At 1:00am, Scully stands up to gather her things and Clarice immediately offers her bed for the night. “I’ll sleep on the couch. I’m here already.”

“Absolutely not,” Scully tells her. They’ve spent the better part of two hours telling stories from their childhoods, adolescence and college years, and now Scully knows how Clarice is a light sleeper.

“It’s late and you’ll have to drive a ways.”

She raises her eyebrows. “I’ve driven late at night before. Last week, actually. To a crime scene. As I recall, we both did.”

Clarice sighs. “That was different. We had to do that. I have clean pajamas and a spare toothbrush, lotions. But, uh, I understand if you want your own space, though. No place like home.”

Scully crinkles her nose. She likes her little apartment well enough but her eyes are drooping, her limbs feel heavy and here – this apartment feels tranquil and safe. She wonders what time Jack left her place. Did she tell him she was coming back? She could go to his now, maybe. He doesn’t live far. She bites her lower lip. “Would staying on your couch be okay?”

***

She doesn’t fall asleep on the couch. She falls asleep in Clarice’s bed while waiting for Clarice to get out of the shower so she can ask her for a spare blanket. The summer heat still hangs in the air, faded and light like a old sheet, but Scully has never been able to sleep without something covering her.

She doesn’t mean to lay back on the mattress, doesn’t mean to curl up with the fleece resting at the base of Clarice’s bed and listen to the sound of the water running through the old pipes above her until everything goes still.

She wakes up to a sunbeam streaming across her face from a crack in the curtain. She raises her head, takes in her surroundings. Yes. Clarice’s place. Scully looks at Clarice, curled away from her. Somehow, they are both under the bed sheet. She should be embarrassed, but instead, Scully feels like warm honey. She melts back into the pillow.


End file.
